


even a moment

by witching



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Hands, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, No Dialogue, Sexual Tension, Sweet/Hot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-20 01:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20666699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching
Summary: oh itputs the heart in my chest on wingsfor when I look at you, even a moment, no speakingis left in me// sappho, fragment 31 [tr. anne carson]





	even a moment

**Author's Note:**

> the prompt was a 300-word scene with no dialogue but i went overboard as always ✌

Crowley crossed one leg lazily over the other, leaning back in his seat to appreciate his view. His eyes, wide and uncovered and obvious, roved over an unheeding Aziraphale, drinking in the sight of him, memorizing him. The angel was hunched over a records book, scribbling away as if nothing existed in the universe but him and his book and his pen. 

Unlike his usual habit, Aziraphale's hands were stained with ink, hardly visible against his dark skin in the low light, but stark enough that Crowley could see it just fine. In spite of himself, the demon felt a rush of warmth at it, at the fact that he could see his angel like this, where nobody else could. Aziraphale always meticulously scrubbed away the flecks and blots of ink on his skin before daring to be seen in public; his mess was Crowley's alone to behold.

He had promised a night out, had sworn up and down that this work would only take a few more minutes, and Crowley had nodded and smiled and taken a seat to wait for him. The best seat in the house, it was, because Crowley knew it would not be only a few minutes, and he was perfectly content with the fact, so long as he could watch Aziraphale as he worked. He was confident he could watch all night without blinking and his mind would not stray to his dinner reservations even once. 

Aziraphale was, hands down, the best sight imaginable. His tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on the task at hand, a precious glimpse of soft pink peeking out through his lips. His left hand was occupied in vigorously adding up sums and listing out inventory; his right hand sat on the desk, curled around a mug of tea that he hadn't had a drink from in at least an hour. It was still warm. Aziraphale liked the comfort of the steady heat seeping into his skin more than he really liked the tea, and so his tea always remained warm.

Crowley liked the same type of comfort just as well, but his favorite source of warmth was Aziraphale. He imagined taking the angel's idle hand, removing those stout fingers from the cup one by one until that hand was in his possession, lifting it to his face, pressing that palm to his cheek and feeling the heat sink down into his skin, his flesh, his bones, his soul. He imagined every inch of Aziraphale touching every inch of him and warming him thoroughly and completely. 

One of the angel's fingers twitched against the mug, and it made Crowley's breath catch. Pathetic, really, but he didn't have the wherewithal to be embarrassed for it. Aziraphale's hands were a wonder, a true miracle in Crowley's opinion, his skin soft and warm, his fingers plump, his nails buffed to a diamond shine, and the strength of his grip. Crowley had always been enraptured by those hands, and now he found himself drowning in thoughts of what they could be doing to him if they weren't engaged in inventory. 

It was not a fruitful line of thought; Crowley breathed out a soft sigh, shaking his head clear of it. He turned his focus up, watching Aziraphale’s face instead, his brow furrowed in concentration, his eyes narrowed, his gorgeous plump lips and his pretty pink tongue darting out just a tad further to wet them and – no, that wasn't helpful, either.

In a stunning display of willpower, Crowley held back a groan. He had thought it would be easy to wait for the inventory or what have you to be finished, had thought that watching Aziraphale would be solace enough. He was patient; he could wait. 

But the angel wasn't wearing his tie, and the extra flash of his throat was so enticing it was painful. Crowley loved to just look at his angel, to watch him, but he hadn't counted on just how unbelievably sexy Aziraphale was. It was silly of him, honestly, to overlook such an obvious fact, and now he was reaping the consequences of his shortsightedness.

Crowley pressed his legs tighter together in an attempt to suppress his body's reaction, but the sound of him shifting in his seat somehow managed to attract Aziraphale's attention. He must have been finishing up anyway, Crowley thought, must have been already floating to the surface of reality when the slide of fabric on fabric pulled him up just a bit faster. The angel turned, first just his head, then his body, abandoning his work on the desk and swiveling fully in his seat.

Aziraphale didn't say anything, which was frustrating but also – well, Crowley could admit to himself that it was _ hot, _ the way the angel's eyes raked up and down his body, taking in the light flush in the demon's cheeks and his white-knuckled grip on the arms of the chair, silently appraising him. Crowley cleared his throat, squirming under the scrutiny.

His immaculate eyebrows raised in an expression of fond amusement, Aziraphale blinked slowly and nodded his head in the direction of the door, the street. A question. 

Crowley shook his head, rising from his seat on shaky legs and taking the one, two, three steps to reach the angel. He grabbed Aziraphale's hand, held it tight in both of his own, and pulled him up – willingly, of course, he could never make Aziraphale do anything he didn't want to do.

As he stood, the angel opened his mouth to say something snarky, some comment about their plans for the evening, but quickly decided against it, pressing his lips together and shooting Crowley a beaming smile. A bright, beatific smile, much too pretty, much too innocent for the situation, accompanied by a gaze packed full of heat.

As he led the angel upstairs, Crowley caught a glimpse of the clock and laughed. It was two hours past their dinner reservation, and Crowley found he didn't mind one bit. There were more important things to tend to at the moment.


End file.
